


Yours and Mine

by pipistrelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, The Holmes Boys, overprotective!Sherlock, writing Mycroft is so much fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A visit to Mycroft clarifies some things, but not the things that Sherlock was hoping to clarify. Light Johnlock. Set pre-Scandal in Belgravia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours and Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is some old-school fanfic I found digging through old files. Short and sweet.

Of course Mycroft had been expecting Sherlock to come bursting into his office, dark coat fluttering dramatically and eyes ablaze. He had been expecting it ever since the Moran file had arrived on his desk, three days previous, and so just for fun he had arranged to be working in unusually high-security locations ever since. (It wouldn’t do to make it too easy on Sherlock. Mummy had always liked it when he gave his brother a challenge, since there were so few who could.)

Though, Mycroft reflected as Sherlock came barreling into his Parliament office on the third day, perhaps he was losing his touch. Obviously it hadn’t been the bolts and retina-scanners and quiet, efficiently violent men in suits who had been keeping Sherlock at bay for three days — John’s limp (much worse than usual) and the stiffness in his shoulders (indicative of pulled muscle) made that abundantly clear.

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said pleasantly, putting deduction out of his mind. He preferred to work with information he had already attained by other means. “Please, have a seat. Good to see you, John,” he said, as the doctor collapsed gratefully into an armchair, breathing fast.

Sherlock ignored the invitation to sit, as he always did, preferring to stand and glare.

Mycroft leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his face, waiting to see if Sherlock would begin. Sherlock stayed silent, just breathing, allowing his anger to crystallize and cool. The stalemate might have continued for hours (as it had on other occasions), if not for John, who fidgeted for ten seconds and then blurted out, “Look, Sherlock, it isn’t really his fault. All right? Let’s just go home.”

“Of course it’s his fault,” Sherlock replied without looking at John. “It is entirely his fault. His negligence, his cherished mystique, as though all the so-called security protocols of this government offered any more security than the blanket he thought would protect him from the monsters when he was five—”

“Come now, Sherlock, no need for that,” Mycroft said mildly. “You can’t think I had anything to do with Moran. That would be quite a childish and uncharacteristic error.”

“No, no, Moran was sent by Moriarity, that’s obvious enough,” Sherlock snapped, beginning to pace. “But he shouldn’t have ever been available for Moriarty to send. I’ve seen the Polski case file, I know about the drug charges that should have had him in Pentonville until he rotted — so _why wasn’t he_?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “Sherlock, you know very well that there are… political realities —”

“He kidnapped John!” Sherlock burst out, stopping abruptly in his pacing. John groaned and let his head loll back onto the armchair. “Spare me your inane chatter about _political realities_ , Mycroft. As if that weren’t an oxymoron. I want to know why Moran went free. You’re lucky I haven’t already gone to the papers.”

“Guilty men go free every day, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Killers. Dangerous men. Perversions of the justice system are legion — but I was always under the impression that it wasn’t your area. Why haven’t I heard so vehemently from you before now?” Sherlock stayed silent. “Because this time it put John in danger, and John is — what? Yours? Once your toy is broken, the matter must be dealt with, is that it?”

Sherlock subsided, seeming to mull that over. Mycroft gave a thin smile and rifled through the stack of papers on his desk. “Well, at least he won’t be engaged in any more criminality for a while — you’ve certainly seen to that.”

John, who had been staring determinedly out the window, gave a start. “Hang on,” he said to Sherlock. “You told me he’d run off. That you didn’t know what happened to him.”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you, did he?” Mycroft asked, all innocent. “Not surprising, really. I assume he wouldn’t have wanted to distress you during your recuperation, these past three days. Very sweet of him, to look after you, though I can imagine it must have been a trying experience. I do notice when you vanish off the streets,” he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock sniffed in disdain and looked away. Mycroft pulled the relevant leaf out of Moran’s file and handed it across to John. “Medical records for one Alexander Moran. Extensive lacerations, fractures in many bones indeed, a punctured lung, a few cracked ribs — all indicative, as I’m sure you’ll agree, Doctor, of having been thrown down an elevator shaft.” Mycroft paused. “Possibly more than once.”

John read the sheet, looked at Sherlock, read the sheet a few more times, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and eventually closed his eyes as though in great pain. “Sherlock,” he moaned.

“I did only what was necessary,” Sherlock said, refusing to feign even a hint of guilt.

“Careful there,” Mycroft said. “I often find myself in the position of being forced to trust your judgement, Sherlock. Don’t make me regret that more than I already do. I’m sure Lestrade would like to know —”

“Oh, come off it. You won’t tell Lestrade, any more than I’d go to the papers,” Sherlock sighed. “Come on, John, we won’t learn anything useful here.”

“Thank God,” John sighed as he heaved himself out of the armchair. He wobbled a bit on standing, reaching for a cane that wasn’t there, and he probably would have fallen if Sherlock hadn’t happened to pass close enough to offer his arm at precisely the right moment. He tried to make it appear accidental, but he didn’t try very hard — it was a measure of his anger that he didn’t care if Mycroft saw the gesture (and Mycroft most assuredly did).

* * *

It was a crisp fall London evening, and Sherlock took a deep breath as they left the building, closing his eyes and allowing his brain to sort idly through the odors and effluvia of life. Sweet glaze from the bakery across the street; sewage stirred up by the recent rain; horses, both musk and dung; a recent cooking disaster in a flat on the corner; an unusually violent night brewing in the pub two doors down. He allowed himself to be absorbed for a precious moment as he waited for John to follow him out the door (limp still pronounced, but due to a real gunshot wound this time, as evidenced by its location; the illusory limp was in the other leg. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had noticed that).

Instead of moving towards the street to get a cab, John leaned against the stone lion in front of the building, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sherlock,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to throw Moran down an elevator shaft.”

Wrong. Always wrong, dear foolish John. “He had drugged you,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“You drug me,” John pointed out. “A lot.”

“Yes, but it’s not a privelege I afford to the general public,” Sherlock said.

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock shrugged, irritable. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

“Oh, _that_ wasn’t necessary? Jesus, Sherlock, you can’t just —” He stopped, reined himself in, puffed out a sigh. “Was that all true, then, what Mycroft was saying?”

“Probably. I don’t doubt the imbeciles at the hospital missed a contusion or two, but what more can you expect from —”

“No, not that,” John said. “The other stuff. About me being…yours.”

Sherlock gazed into the distance. “Molly probably has the bloodwork back on that dead banker by now. If we get down to the morgue tonight, I can fetch the riding crop and…”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in that way which meant he was trying to consider the emotions of others, and finding the effort to be taxing and unpleasant. A few seconds dragged by, until finally watching Sherlock casting about for some non-offensive phrasing grew to be too much for John, and he stepped forward to flag down a passing cab. “Look, forget about it,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s just — you don’t _own_ me, all right?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, sounding chastened.

“And don’t kill anyone on my account. At least — not unless it’s really, really important.”

“Fine.”

They got into the cab, and John rested his head against the window as Sherlock directed it to Baker Street. John’s leg ached abominably, and he could feel the sting of cuts and bruises all over, and the part of his mind that continued to work dreamily underneath the pain presented for his consideration that of course he was Sherlock’s, he had been from the moment they had met — Sherlock’s blogger and colleague and helpmeet and (only) friend — and that Sherlock was his genius, his freak, and… well. Just his.

It was a pleasant thought, and it lulled him into a doze as the cab bumped and rattled across the city, and Sherlock muttered to himself about arsenic poisoning. For perhaps the first time since he’d escaped from Moriarty’s goons, John drifted off with the certain knowledge that all was right with the world.


End file.
